Sixty-Minute Patriot

At Writers’ Bloc, five terrific poems were passed around for comments. Two of them were mine. Kudos to SP and TC. Tomorrow during Superbowl halftime and maybe before,  I will read again the copies I brought home and savor them as the predictable top flight creations they are; like a rotisserie chicken from Schnuck’s — which I also brought home.

Kudo’s to Kate Hawkes at Trout Lily Cafe in lyrical downtown Springfield for the establishment’s winning the Mayor’s Award for local business best serving local visual arts — or something like that — in a Thursday night “fancyschmantz” at the Hoagland. It’s significant honor for a kid who co-owned a bean-sprouts-and-lentils cafe on West Monroe in the 70s called No Baloney. Trout is a giant step for her talent, and the monthly appearance of a new featured artist on her south wall gives all a reason to visit . . . . at least once a month. January’s featured artist was Delinda Chapman. This month, it’s Joan Burmeister — both delightful hummin’ beans and skilled visual artists; worth your time for a look-see.

The writers gathered therein this day were pretty much the same as last Saturday. The usually are, and that’s okay, though unfamiliar scribes “in search of” are always welcome.

Knowing what was gathering half a block south on Sixth Street, I departed about noonly and boogied down to the peace rally on the corner of Sixth at Monroe. Diane has just put down her packet of posters and was holding two, facing light traffic when I arrived. I told her I had described my interface of last week with Honey & Quinine readers, and the feedback was so good, I’m committing to making the event part of my Saturday colander. Technically speaking I think we can classify “Standing Up” as physical exercise, and I can always use some physical exercise, though I’ll be the first to admit, I’m no Jack La Lane.

When I explained what I had shared here, including my appellation of “peaceniks anonymous,” because I didn’t know if the effort had an official name, Diane pointed out that none of us are anonymous to each other — though we may be to passing cars and pedestrians. We also have an official name:

Vigil For Peace

She also pointed out that we no longer encourage passers by to honk (I’m talking horns here) when they drive by. The signs inviting honks are no longer displayed. Though some don’t mind what seems to me as disturbing as the peal of a bell, others have felt otherwise. That said … when we hear a horn, most of us extend an arm with an upturned thumb at the end of it in their direction of the affirmation, from honkees, so to speak, to honkers.

Some of the assemblage was headed off to a showing of Frost and Nixon — and you thought no Republican Party enthusiasts carried peace signs? As the spider said to the transexual Mexican Miss Muffetoza: No WHEY, Jose.

The weather was as perfect as the conversation and physical exercise.

Live long . . . . . . . . . and proper..

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A Civil Way to Go

Yesterday, I received a call from the bank that I was OVERDRAWNDANGIT! I understand most people reading this go for decades, forever even, without bouncing a check, but I measure my time in months. It’s always “crunch” time late in the month for me, but considering how few checks I write, this business of keeping my account in order should be as elementary as third grade arithmetic. And the fact I can’t deal realistically with elementary math helps explain why I can’t deal with elementary life.

I promised the fellow on the phone I would bring a paycheck I’ve had for three weeks from Springfield Business Journal over and deposit it in 10 minutes. If I had deposited the check three weeks ago when it arrived, I would not have received the phone call. After grabbing that check, brushing my hair and changing into “street pants” I was off and running.

Off and walking to be precise. My bank is only two blocks away, and I always hoof it if I don’t have other errands. Along the way I traversed several snowy sidewalks untouched by residents. With only a few inches on the ground it was nothing worse than slippery; no more difficult an impediment for forward motion than tall grass.

I had shoveled mine Sunday minutes after the first few inches hit and Wednesday after the second few inches hit. Each time took less than 20 minutes. I may let my grass grow long sometimes, but I believe in shoveling my sidewalk, walkway to the porch and lower part of my drive.

During the walk to the bank, I was impressed by how more homes to the west of me had clean sidewalks and how few homes east of me had received the same attention. It was like the further one goes toward our city’s “wrong side of the tracks,” about 12 blocks east of me, the less attention is given to sidewalks. Even businesses whose driveways and back parking lots had been plowed by professionals had sidewalks untouched by shovels. Even the Baptist church on the corner was untouched. There’s a law that says businesses MUST shovel their walks, but it’s apparently more convenient to risk a law suit from an injured pedestrian than it is to shovel snow. Go figger.

I could have saved myself some challenging terrain if I had just walked in the clean streets, nicely cleared by Wednesday morning. When the weather is better, throngs of young people walk the streets, just outboard of cars parked curbside, successfully avoiding chance encounters with dog feces left behind by dogs owned by walkers of dogs. I’ve been waling poo-strewn trails for a long time, so I was not concerned about infection from what might come home with me on my shoes. Sidewalks are the civil way to go.

From another perspective, so is the fading courtesy of shoveling snow. As I walked home, I wondered why people I know — to wave to — hadn’t bothered with what should be a common courtesy. Fear of physical debilitation? A heart attack? The media remind us this time of year of the perils of shoveling snow. They tell us the signs to watch for when you’re doing the shovel thing. I pay no attention to it. That’s because I believe snow shoveling is a way to exit this life without sacrificing your reputation as a worthwhile hummin’ bean.

“Larry Jones of the 300 block of Zed Street was found lifeless in the front yard of his home yesterday lying on top of a snow shovel on a partially cleared sidewalk.”

It seems a whale of a lot better way to go than blowing your brains out or even building a charcoal fire on your grille after turning off the furnace and air circulation, finding a nice book to read and closing the door. What a give away that would be, aye?  I mean like, HELLOOOOO.

Many good people clear their sidewalks because of pride of citizenship, their care for people they don’t know who pass by at all times of the day, and who may (or may not) appreciate the courtesy. Still, I can imagine someone thinking, shovel in hand and taling into the snow thinking to himself, “NERTS! I should have stayed inside and watched Oprah!” I can also imagine someone thinking to himself, “Thank God. My pants are on and I’m not drifting out in a drug-induced fog. What a civil way to go.”

Live long . . . . . . . and proper.

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I Am Awash in Jubilation

If I had a job, which I don’t, I would have compromised my work efficiency rating by calling in “sick” this week so I could witness with my ears, the incredible history that played out over the airwaves (some on WGN but most on WUIS) as the people of the state of Illinois bade a unanimous “up yours” to the former governor of Illinois. I have listened to every word spoken by Rod B., the Illinois Senate and all who talked to a microphone as the music eminated from UIS and GN. As I write these words, GOVERNOR Patrick Quinn (Hallelujah! There are no unbelieving deists Illinois.) is speaking to the media — all of them which is why I use the plural form — “There is a reason God put our eyes in the front of our heads.” There is joy here.

I’ve dodged obligations because I could not pull myself away from the radio while I did the AeroKnow thing and wished I were writing poems instead.

At a little past 11 a this morning, as I listened to the Kathy and Judy Show on WGN (I am a “girlfriend” and happily so) word came in that Illinois service trucks were parked by “Govorner Rod Blagojevich Welcomes You to Illinois.” signs and doing nothing; just waiting for the word to reach them from Springfield. When it appeared the station was going to take calls from callers after 1 p as the rebuttal speech came, I switched to WUIS and listened to every word; not be because I don’t like WUIS. Whenever the morning show is on that station, there at WGN I am and often beyond.

Are you as joyous? I hope you are.

I had an inch of Wild Turkey left over from Christmas. I was saving it for something special and vowed not to touch it until the final vote in the Senate, and after that I decided not to touch it until Pat Quinn was sworn it. When it was reported Quinn had been sworn in his office, but would be meeting with legislators and press soon, I held off on the Turkey. . . . . . waiting.

When Quinn appeared and the interfacing with the media began, I broke out the Wild Turkey, continued working with the aviation history, savoring, sipping along the way before returning to the old computator keyboard as the NEWS conference continued. In graduate school, my news director/boss at WMAY HATED the traditional term “press conference” because in the context of the time — mid-70s. We weren’t all writing for print. I was working for broadcast and purty darn happytebe.  Dan Walker lived in the Executive Mansion, and Ritchie Daily’s father held court in Chicago’s city hall — Bill was right. He was correct, of course. I’ve not used the phrase “press conference” since.

The Turkey bottle is empty. Dang shame.

I could use a half a bottle more.

BRAVO Governor Quinn! Kudos to all who served so well in bringing this necessary action to peaceful resolution.

I for one intend to celebrate future January 29s as a holiday. Emancipation comes in many forms, you know.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

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Coffee at 10:30

If I were making meaningful money, I’d be having a lot more fun settling into my new routine.  The past few weeks have been incredibly productive in wrong directions, all aviation and poetry related.  At Saturday’s Writers’ Block meeting a friend asked me if I had considered writing for the Chicago Tribune as a stringer. I’d never given the possibility a thought, but that’s on my “Look Into This” list for Thursday. I’m obsessing with the idea of completing a major index project during rotten weather when I’m not about to hit the streets with my car in its current condition. I’ve done nothing but cull aviation articles from some recently donated magazines when I’m in the living room before and after dinner. When I’m in the office, I”m bearing down on the indexing project to the point of excluding the model building. I will make time Thursday and Friday to write two poems.

An acquaintance writes two poems a day at her poetry blog. I’m a mite amazed, but that’s possible for her. I believe two a week are possible for me.

I drank coffee in the middle of Charlie Rose’ excellent interview with former president Jimmy Carter because no matter what I do between Rose and Scrubs/Sex and the City because all three programs are essential to my sanity. This evening during dinner, I watched two current season Scrubs on ABC. Before I go to bed about 3a, two hours of the day will have been spent watching that show in syndication and prime time network. It seems the current series has lost some of its edge. There’s more vanilla than salsa going on this season.  Still it’s the best comedy in play this season.

The nutty snow is falling again. They predict another two inches. That will keep me off the streets with my car at any rate until things begin to melt. That’s okay. I have indexing to do. Lots and lots of indexing. I sense a reward waiting for me. These indexes are generating correspondence with aviation enthusiasts in Australia and England, Arkansas and Massachusetts, and that’s just over the last week and a half.  Small consolations.

I am soooooo ready for warmer weather!. I still have wine and Wild Turkey; Ramen noodles through next Wednesday, soup through Friday. I’m back eating Peter Pan Crunchy again. It’s my new “ice cream” for times when I have to eat something cheap. Crunchy on a knife and a banana were luch today. Less expensive than a can of Campbell’s Fajita Chicken, and almost as tasty.

When the State Journal-Register called to tell me about my recently expired subscription, at the phone person’s suggestion I signed on to subscribe via Easy Pay which deducts payments automatically. In return for doing this, they’re going to send me a card good for $25 of gasoline. The Wednesday SJ-R delivered to my front door today was as thin as I’ve seen an SJ-R, even a Monday SJ-R.  I’m concerned about the paper. I’m a jounalist. I am morally obliged to subscribe. I have valued aquaintances working there.

Here, with the grace of God, go I.

Live long . . . . and proper.

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Of Arrow Sock and Soul — a poem

I’ve been fiddling with fonts and cutting and pasting here, and the result is inconsistent font appearance. Sorry for the variations. It is all intended to be Times New Roman.

Of Arrow Sock and Soul

By Job Conger
written Friday, January 23, 6:18 pm

Traversing boldly
through time and space
to the purgatory of the lost:
arrows shot into the air
and still in lofty flight
beyond Longfellow’s oak,
the pristine forms of
feather, wood and steel
zoom on
through stoic infinity.

It is the place where solitary socks
purloined by churlish fate
from dryer and clothesline
consort estranged
from partners’ company;
a sorry world
of screaming
AM-ness
to the vast, unhearing void.

And so it is my destiny as well
as my honed words
that seek to penetrate
the callous armor of my world’s
indifference
continue to burst outbound
unaffected by the cognac of appreciation
or the hemlock of arrestment.

These sharpened points
and finely woven cotton comforters
are words that will not die
because I am not yet dust.
But they will not rest where they belong
whether deep into the bull’s eye
or in the dresser drawer
or in the hearts of my close
and distant humanity
foiled again by uncherished though unguilty
eyeless, earless reality.

My words and so
many poets’ words
of arrows, socks and souls
will never find their heaven
or their hell.
They will forever dwell
in the purgatory of the lost
and will never come home.

—  This  was the second new poem I wrote since March 2008. Both were shared during my excellent encounter with Writers’ Bloc, starting 9:30ish at Trout Lily Cafe in lyrical downtown Springfield, and the recipients of copies distributed there seemed glad to get them.

BTW, My friend Delinda Chapman is featured artist at the Trout Lily gallery Wall o’ Talent and the paintings are worth your visit.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

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From the Bowl With the Submerged Tiny Castle Resting on Sand — a poem

Here is the first of two poems I wrote after a long poem hiatus.

From the Bowl With the Submerged Tiny Castle Resting on Sand
By Job Conger
written 4:52 pm, Friday, January 23, 2009

“How sad, my
three-second
memory,”

“How sad, my
three-second
memory,”

“How sad, my
three-second
memory,”

“How sad, my
three-second
memory,”

“How sad, my
three-second
memory,”
wrote the gold
fish poet.

— I timed the quoted words with the second hand on my office clock, speaking only enough to fill three seconds without rushing or stretching. Considerable re-write from the original –“Have you ever considered how badly goldfish must feel because they forget everything that happened more than three seconds ago?” — was necessary.

Lines of three syllables each are intentional. I also understand that a goldfish — which, zoologists tell us, has a three-second memory is not likely to remember how to spell 11 words. This is a poem, friends and enemas.

It is not a report.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

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Move Prisoners From Guantanamo to Wake Island

During the Sunday news’hows, there was talk of moving the nastiest prisoners at “Gitmo” in Cuba to the Alcatraz Prison State Historic Site of California. As Speaker Nancy Pelosi, who is no slouch, pointed out, Alcatraz is not a prison; it’s a tourist attraction. The merit to the idea, which Pelosi and others have not considered is the propaganda value of holding known terrorists in a tourist attraction. Who in the land of Persians and Arabs could be mad at the USA for holding criminal kindred in a tourist attraction? Only a few prisoner during the site’s former life as the most secure home for the incorrigible are known to have successfully escaped (or as they used to say in the White House, excaped) from that droll rock, and fewer, if any, are known to have made it to the mainland. On the surface, Alcatraz seems ideal for the job.

At first, soon after President Obama made known his intention to close the Cuban prison within a year, I thought the best option, after releasing those known to be “not really THAT guilty” to return to their homelands and depositing all but the reallyreally guilty in prisons located on stateside military bases, was to put the least-friendly of them on a slow boat to India. The boat, operated by remote control from a base in Colorado (where they navigate Predator drones to the “no terrorists land” between Afghanistan and Paki’ and deactivate known terrorists we can’t touch because it’s against international law and the policy of a respected, sovoreign, nation) might accidentally run aground on a sand bar (the irony would be incredible) thousands of miles from anywhere, and neither boat nor nastypersons would be seen again. After I finally wiped the smile off my face from that daydream. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I realized with Obama in the White House at the dawn of a new era of accountability, WE — meaning US — could no longer pass that buck and blame it on Dick Cheney. There must be a better way.

And there is.

The last foreigners to set up housekeeping in Wake Island southwest of the Hawaiian Islands, were elements of the Imperial Japanese Army. And things were no different then than now: there was a war going on. And the established residents there, US military and civilian operators of a Pan American Airways seaplane base, voiced strong objections to the new arrivals, just as it is likely the residents there today will oppose the arrival of the bottom of the nasty barrel.

So let’s get real. Wake Island is too far from the US mainland for even the hardiest prisoner to swim to freedom in the USA. We should appoint the worst of the nastiest to administrate the island after moving all legal citizens of the United States of America OFF the island. The worst should govern the least-worst of the nastiest and if they find a way to live in harmony there, supplied by food and water and DVDs dropped by parachute from 30,000 feet by C-17s out of Honolulu, we should reward them for finding away to accomplish something few Arab politicians have ever done: live in a way that serves their society instead of eroding and repressing it. If they succeed in this, say, over the course of the next 20 years or so, there should be tangible reward for their effort.

I would recommend moving them to Alcatraz.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

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Twenty-minute Patriot

The events of the week have led me to reconnect with a group of Springfield writers who gather every Saturday morning at Trout Lily Cafe on downtown Sixth Street half a block south (east side of the street) from the Old State Capitol Building. We’re informal, but the name of the group is Writers’ Bloc. More about them later this month. As I departed that elegant confluence of conviviality and talent, I reconnected with another informal assemblage which comes together Saturdays from noon to 1 pm at the southeast corner of Sixth at Monroe.

The same familiar faces converge with occasional new ones to hold poster/signs with slogans which share opposition to the US military presence in Iraq. The group does not have a name, and they don’t need one because names aren’t required. Call them “peaceniks anonymous” if you like. Better yet, call US “peaceniks anonymous.” I interrupted my shoe leather trek to my car following Writers’ Bloc to stand with them for 20 minutes today. Every time I encounter them, I stop and stand with them holding a signs and saluting sympathetic passers by with grateful thumbs ups.

The convivial fellowship of partners in protest is always upbeat and never cynical. There is not a scowl to be found in the lot of them/us.

Diane Lopez Hughes of the Pax Christi organization and Peg Knoepfle, a dedicated peace activist and, coincidentally, long-time wife of John Knoepfle, are primary dynamos with “peaceniks anonymous” — my term; nobody else’s. Diane is in charge of sloganed signs, and Peg shares that role when Diane is out of town attending other rallies which make the Saturday assemblage look like a large line standing at a stoplight on a quiet day. There are always five or six other regular participants who recognize me as I recognize them. As I said, their names are of no consequence to the mission at hand. What’s important is that they are sentient humanity, standing in protest of our war in Iraq. If it weren’t for the signs, passing motorists — who usually honk once or twice if they appreciate our presence and refrain from angrily shouted obscenities if they don’t — wouldn’t consider seven or eight people standing at the intersection to be anything unusual. We could be part of a convention staying at the nearby Hilton, out for a stroll, waiting for the WALK sign to come on so we could cross the street. The signs make all the difference.

When I predicted to Diane that I would post a blog about them and told her what the title would be, she responded that even five minute patriots are welcome to stand with them. Her point was well-made. Who knows what motorist heading north on Sixth might pull over to stand with them if they saw 15 people instead of only eight? Everyone I encountered today was a “regular” there. I’m sure all had arrived close to noon, and most remained for the allotted hour. I remained until it was time to put away the signs. The whole effort is coordinated through the city bureaucracy which means we have official permission to be there.

I don’t think that any war ever ended with a peace treaty because patriotic enclaves of citizens gathered eight to 100 at a time to sing Kumbaya, so to speak. But gathering like this reinforces what we believe and might lead one person on a given Saturday to think more favorably toward exiting that hard place: The USA and its legal citizens have more important tasks than the perpetuation of an occupation built on a foundation of lies.

I also asked Diane if the group standing had an official opinion regarding the war in Afghanistan. She explained how Pax Christi is against all war, but given the informality of the group holding signs on the “Street Corner Named PEACE” (my term, with apologies to Tennessee Williams) there was no official position with us.

Promptly at 1 pm, the bells, pealing from a nearby church clock reached us the way factory whistles blowing used to greet assembly line workers at Allis Chalmers and Sangamo Electric. It was time to stop. So we did: returned the signs to artist portfolio case and headed for parts outbound.

I’ve been away from Writers’ Bloc for more than a year, and thus away from “peaceniks anonymous.” I will be returning often to both enterprises in the weeks ahead. Both surely beat staying home.

So if you’re driving through lyrical downtown Springfield on a Saturday between 12 and 1 pm, stop near the corner of Sixth at Monroe and stand with them/us on the sunny side of the street. It’s only an hour, or 20 minutes or five if that’s all you can spare, and chances are, you will feel well blessed from the experience.

I know I do.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

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Deadline Met

I can’t tell you what I wrote for the next issue of Springfield Business Journal because if I did, the State Journal-Register would know — at least one REAL writer from that fine daily has been known to look in on this “motley phoo” — and after that one of their writers could trump me before the February SBJ reaches the news stands. And then my esteemed Editor Bridget would have to kill me. But I will tell you Thursday was a clockwork-perfect day starting at the crack of 10a with two hours of excellent catching up conversation with long-time friend, poet and hummin’ dynamo Anita Stienstra at Barnes & Noble. While ordering my coffee with no room at the top for cream (They ask you if you want room before they pour.) I was delighted to be recognized by the fellow at the coffee counter by a B&N employee who remembered my emceeing poetry nights with Poets & Writers Literary Forum of Springfield and called me by name. So many people call me by epithet, it’s nice to be known by name to people who remember my name and how to pronounce it. The last event of that kind I emceed at B&N was in November 1999.

It was also a delight to walk with Anita to the Books by Local Authors table and show here my book, Springfield Aviation, which is displayed and offered for sale there.

For the first time in a long time, I skipped lunch … and for almost the first time it wasn’ t because there was nothing edible in my kitchen. I had things to do.

On the way home from Barnes’ and Anita,  I long-overduely delivered to Dave Beatty at Beatty Televisual on Wabash, his contributor’s copy of my book. We are meeting next week to discuss further local aviation history presence at AeroKnow.

Just about every minute untill 4:30 was spent visiting and interviewing people for my SBJ commitment. One of the terrificest things (most terrific things, if you prefer) about being a paid journalist, compared with being a seldom-money-compensated reciter of poetry, is that people don’t try to make themselves invisible if they see me before I see them. Everyone knows I am not an irritated Gila Monster with a tape recorder in his pocket (and I am glad to see them) and a camera dang dang dangling from my neck neck neck. I’m not there to look at their ledgers or to direct them to pee into a cup. I am there to learn about less than that and to write about them after I return to mon home orifice.

The business of writing (por moi) does not begin until more than all I intend to say is visible on a computer screen or refined pulp. The interviewing is my second-most favorite part of being a journalist because I meet some fine people, am affirmed by their warm reception and extended courtesies (and occasional hospitalities), and they’re always glad I came. I don’t like phone interviews, but I’m okay with them when face time isn’t practical  During conversations across a table, desk or counter, eye contact or a glance at a decoration on wall or book case may generate questions and answers in directions unimaginable over the phone. It’s also easier to transcribe voices to white space than read my long hand starting 50 seconds after hanging up the phone.

Of course, the drag of transcribing interviews is the least fun. My dictation machine has foot pedal controls that allow me to rewind and repeat phrases while both hands tap dance on the keyboard. Without that machine, a three hour transcription effort would take up to five. I can also slow or increase playback speed and crank up the treble when voices are muddied by distance from the recorder and background noise. I know the micro-cassettes are ox-cart technology, but they work. I hope that when the current machine breaks down there will be something digital-equivalent waiting for me on a shelf at Radio Shack.

The meat of journalism is getting the facts. The vegetable course is transcription. And hte dessert (for me) is finessing information into final draft. Writing for news print is not a job for poets. Imagination counts for zilch because too often, imagination convolutes what should be the efficient, smooth conveyance of facts. There’s a thin line that separates “fact from friction.” Having a decent vocabulary and engaging it as a journalist does not require poetry; it requires practice and meaningful guidance from fine folks who direct the publisher’s bookkeeper to write the checks. I’m always relieved when the transcription is done because ahead is nothing but fun. I never take lunch leaving transcription unfinished. The time away from the computer screen also allows me a fresh consideration of what’s there, usually arranged in the same order in which it will appear when published.

I had promised Bridget.everything by 4:00 Friday, and I hit the SEND key at 3:30. Nothing I do with my clothes on gives me greater satisfaction than completing a writing assignment on time.

Thanks to my meeting with Anita, after sending words for dollars to editor extraordinaire, I did something I haven’t done since last March. I wrote a poem.

That ramble is for posting Sunday. Stay tuned.

Live long . . . . . . . . . . and don’t go crazy with semi-colons …and ellipsis.

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A Funny Thing Happened on my way to the Post Office

Some months ago I described how God must have been sitting on my shoulder when I was moved by the Spirit to check the kitchen on a whim after I had turned on a faucet that had frozen overnight. While I had puttered in the office, the pipe had thawed and had filled my sink to about an eighth of an inch from the brim, so I literally sprinted two strides in mad rush to turn off the faucet. Today I learned what it’s like not to have God sitting on my shoulder.

It’s been a nutty two days. There was no point in making calls for my Business Journal assignment Monday because everything was closed or supposed to be. I even hate to shop for anything on Sunday.

Though the previous day I had. I hit the road to buy a Schnuck’s rotisserie chicken and some office supplies at Staples near by. I drove by Hobby Lobby “just to look” at their model airplane supplies and was surprised to find them closed at 3:30. Have they shut down entirely? Bummer, in keeping with the demeanor of the day, becoming, darker by the minute and spitting sleet.

It was during a high-pucker swing by Staples and homeward bound that the disadvantages of driving a car with no heater became evident. As it became obvious that white from the sky was wet and began accumulating on my windshield at 40 mph, I instinctively turned on the wipers and spread the mini ice kernels (flakes don’t make noise as they hit your roof) into a thin layer of translucent ice. I could see well enough to make it to Staples, but had to scrape a significant and expansive layer off when I came back to the car and headed home. Air from the ventilation system was blowing on the front glass allowing less visibility than Sherman tank drivers would have had looking through armored slits in combat. One block past Chatham Road heading east on Wabash, I pulled into a parking lot to clean the ice off the windshield. On the positive side, not many drivers were out and about at 4 p on Sunday. On the negative, I turned off the main traffic lanes as soon as I could to scrape my windshield two more times. I made it home, and not a minute too soon. THIS is why I cannot work elsewhere when there is a threat of snowfall. Rain I can do; snow, faGETit!

Monday didn’t really get started for me, despite a decent lunch, and despite making good progress with the aviation history indexing, until 11:15 pm. Half a baked chicken and leftover broccoli rice work wonders. The Carlo Rossi Sangria purchased Sunday at Schnucks helped no doubt. They had no Burgundy or Paisano, but after holding the gallon up to a ceiling light and confirming that it was RED wine, I bought it. I couldn’t say no to $8.99 and if it had been Burgundy, I’d have bought FOUR.

The PBS special about Mohammedanism coming to India followed by rule as part of the British empire kept me interested most of the two hours; a very nicely produced series.

Missed Charlie Rose, thanks no doubt to the Sangria element (Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz) but was awake in time for an hour indexing in the office and two FANTASTIC episodes of Scrubs and what I’m guessing were the first and last episodes of Sex and the City. Each one has a title, you know. The first one, entitled Sex and the City seemed to be the first episode of the entire series. Sara Jessica Parker quipped occasionally directly to the camera (reminiscent of a Woody Allen and Marx Brothers technique) and the flow of the story with lots of “here’s who we are and what drives our lives” patter among the excellent actors just seemed to suggest “first episode.” It might have been the pilot that sold the rest of it. The second episode last night was entitled “Splat” hit me between the eyes as probably the LAST of the series because Sarah Jes Pa decides at the very end to leave NYC to accompany her artist lover (Mikhail Baris….you know, the magnificent ballet star from that Shirley McClaine ballet film in the late 70s . . . . It was a beautiful episode.Finally I hit the hay about 4 a after watching the news and indexing some more in the office.

Today, I was set to visit the post office to mail some packages, but first I had to thaw a frozen kitchen drain (for the first time this winter) and faucet. I stayed busy completing a major indexing project and then arranging things int he basement. I needed some coffee after 40 minutes of this after lunch. That’s when I walked into my kitchen newly awash in an inch of overflowed water from a thawed faucet and a still-frozen drain! HO LEE SHUCKS!

I grabbed all but one towel in the house and for 20 minutes immersed them in floor water and wringing them by hand twisting into my bath tub while also carrying buckets of water from the sink into the bathroom where I dumped them into tubs as well. Almost half an hour into the hustle, the kitchen drain thawed. This allowed me to wring towels into the sink, saving major walking and dripping. It was all over in almost an hour. When all the standing water was gone, I brought in two large window fans.

But first I took off my socks and shoes, dried my cold, wet feet, donned dry socks and dry shoes, THEN plugged fans into an adjacent living room outlet (NOT the soaking wet kitchen floor) and that is where they have been whirring away.

I will do the post office thing on the morrow.

Yes, I was frozen to my radio all morning listening to y’all know whom get you know what. The moment seemed sacred to me. When Pastor Rick Warren prayed, I bowed my head and prayed aloud when he started The Lord’s Prayer. Did the same during the wonderful benediction that began to get a little long before a delightfully beautiful, inspiring conclusion. There has never been a better time to believe if you can and if you care to believe. More about that on another day. Maybe when I get back from the post office.

God speed and God bless the new administration and the whole loving world.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

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